"Miss Burns, is the house on fire?" exclaimed Mrs. Brand.
"'T is he!" I said, with that dead calmness which many find in their woe. "I know it is. We live in the Grove, and there is not another artist in it."
"I am not sure he is an artist," said Edith, rising. "I now think it was an architect."
"There is no architect in the Grove," I replied; "not one."
"My dear," observed Mrs. Brand, soothingly taking my hand, "it is all a mistake, depend upon it."
I looked at her, and shook my head.
"The house was close and silent; the blinds were drawn down. I know why now—lest the contagion should reach me."
Mrs. Brand dropped my hand rather hastily.
"I shall send and inquire at once," she observed. "Pacify yourself, my dear."
She stretched out her hand to ring the bell.